


Lord what you’re doing to me

by hapax (hapaxnym)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale is Not Oblivious (Good Omens), Communicating is Hard, Crowley Lies To Himself A Lot, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley has Trauma from the Fall (Good Omens), Falling Was Not Fun Yo, It All Comes Out All Right Though, Love Confessions, M/M, Yeah I'm Back On That Angst Train Baby
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-14
Updated: 2020-10-14
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:22:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27012718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hapaxnym/pseuds/hapax
Summary: “NO.”  Crowley stood up abruptly, and backed away.  “You don’t.  You can’t.  Youmustn’t.”An inadvertent love confession leads a demon into an existential crisis.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 34
Kudos: 195





	Lord what you’re doing to me

**Author's Note:**

> The title (heckopete this entire fic) is of course inspired by Queen’s “Somebody to Love”
> 
> Many, many thanks to @dashicra1 and @burnttongueontea for the beta, and for the good folks at the DIWS server for the encouragement.

The cruelest punishment of the Fallen was not the various tortures that those higher (or, more properly, Lower) in the hierarchy inflicted upon whomever they could. Nor was it the constant pain of corporations broken, burned, battered, and boiled in sulphur. No, it was the eternal ache at the core of each essence, where their Grace used to reside: the mutual love between angels and their Creator, now torn away, leaving an endless hunger, thirst, hollow bleeding, driving every demon into a mad desire to cram anything and everything into that emptiness. Every one of the Seven Deadlies (and most of the Infinite Less-Deadlies-But-Still-Pretty-Unpleasants) was at its foundation an effort by the denizens of Hell to find a substitute for being Loved.

Crowley was different.

Not that he didn’t suffer along with the rest; he most surely did, although he didn’t make a habit of complaining about it (what would be the point?) Not that he didn’t indulge in the full spectrum of Sins, both out of professional obligation and also temperamental inclination (although he was notoriously picky about the manner and occasion of most of them).

No, he was different because he stumbled on a secret over six thousand years ago. Most demons had devoted their efforts to seeking out adequate replacements for Her Love. If they couldn’t be Loved, they would be Desired; Feared; Envied; Resented; even Hated.

Quite by accident, Crowley had found out that the only thing that could ease that aching torment was not to _be_ Loved, but to _Love_.

It didn’t happen right away, or all at once. It had started out with a chance encounter in a garden with a fretful fussbudget of an angel, who differed from his fellow ethereal entities by being so genuinely humble, friendly, and _kind_ that the demon would have been frankly embarrassed to have pulled out even the most minor of his wiles. So he stayed and chatted instead; and Crowley discovered himself not only completely charmed by this odd creature and his open generosity, but even realized (once that first rainstorm had concluded and he had slithered off) that the howling emptiness within him somehow didn’t tear quite so fiercely at his essence.

So really, it was only self-interested curiosity that drove him to seek out the angel again. But their encounters over the centuries had only intensified that initial bemused fondness. Aziraphale might be devoted to Heaven, and self-righteous, and a bit of a prig; but he was also _good_ , truly good from the rim of his halo to the tips of his pinions; and he was also clever, and witty, and self-indulgent, and passionately invested in the minutiae of the world and the creatures who inhabited it, endlessly fascinated by the humans he so carefully guarded. Guarded from demons like Crowley.

How could Crowley _not_ become equally besotted with this ridiculous being?

It’s not that he was any _good_ at loving, of course. He was still a demon, after all. Which meant that he was grumpy, and bitter, and occasionally even spiteful. He was terrible with words when interacting with someone who lived and breathed them; useless at compassion for an entity who seemed to have been spun from it. But that was all right; it wasn’t like he loved the angel for the angel’s sake. It was one hundred percent a self-centered impulse, motivated purely by the wish to alleviate his own misery. Crowley devoutly hoped that Aziraphale had no idea how fast, how deep, how completely he’d sunk. It was hardly on-brand for the image he’d so carefully cultivated.

But the more he fell—hopelessly, unreservedly, without even fantasizing of love’s return—the more the ancient wound of his original damnation was soothed and calmed. Indeed, it had subsided to the point that he hardly gave it more than an occasional thought.

Until a few minutes in a burning bookshop ripped it open, raw and bleeding once more.

True, Aziraphale’s subsequent restoration had managed to suture the worst of it, and their less-than-amicable separation from their respective employers had done much to restore the demon to his previous fragile stability. But Crowley had been given fair warning how vulnerable he still was to the agony that had devoured every other demon; and he would allow nothing and no one to threaten his precarious grip on survival.

Not even Aziraphale.

Not even if the angel offered everything Crowley had never dared to want.

~~~*

“The thing is, the _thing_ is, isss like …” Crowley slurred, the fourth bottle of wine having perhaps triumphed over his ability to enunciate. “It’ssss jussst like …” He paused, and reconsidered. “No, t’isssn’t. I mean, s’not. ‘S’t’other way, really.”

“Oh, my dear, do you think so?” Aziraphale clutched a cushion to his chest mournfully.

“Yep,” the demon asserted more firmly, almost like someone who had some notion as to what they were talking about. “Exact opposssite.”

The angel shook his head in denial, then emptied his wineglass with one long swallow. “I suppose that it can’t be helped then. We’ll have to make the best of it.” He gestured, and Crowley obligingly refilled his glass. “Er. Whatever _it_ was.” He pondered and hazarded a guess: “Brutalist architecture, I do believe?”

Crowley snapped two fiery red eyebrows together. “I thought we were talking about Thai-Cuban fusssion cuisine.”

“Certainly not!” Aziraphale answered, much affronted. “To think that I might surrender so easily on something as important as that!”

The demon rolled his head across the armrest of the sofa, overwhelmed by his internal tsunami of affection for the nonsensical entity in the shabby old armchair. “Oi, angel, I _do_ love you ssso,” he crooned without thinking. _Wait. Did he just say that out loud_?

“Yes, dearest, I know,” Aziraphale beamed owlishly. “And it’s entirely reciprocated, of course.”

“No.” Crowley stilled. He had the hideous feeling that he should sober up right away. He had an even more hideous feeling that the inevitable onrushing trainwreck of words would be simply unbearable without the numbing influence of alcohol.

“What do you mean, ‘ _no’_?” the angel frowned. “ _No_ as in I should still pretend that I have not been perfectly aware of your feelings for the past several thousand years?” Aziraphale sounded terrifyingly sober himself, compassionate and kind and far, _far_ too reasonable. “I never brought it up, since you didn’t seem to want to discuss it, which is of course _entirely_ your right, but really, Crowley, you must realize that as an angel I am particularly attuned it to the, err, tender emotions.” He made a move as if he were about to pat the demon’s hand; then, taking into account Crowley’s frozen expression, fluttered his fingers awkwardly instead. “My dear boy, it isn’t anything of which to be _ashamed_. And, as I said, I do feel very much the same way.”

“NO.” Crowley stood up abruptly, and backed away. “You don’t. You can’t. You _mustn’t_.”

“But darling—” Aziraphale saw the demon flinch, and stopped. “Crowley, I’m not answerable to Heaven any more. Hell has washed their hands of you. It’s … perfectly _safe_ for me to love you.”

“Not.” He swallowed. “Not for _me_. Not … like you think. Just …” He edged out of the back room, and all but ran for the door. “Just don’t. Please.”

The bell over the shopdoor jingled before Aziraphale could respond. The next thing he heard was the growl of the Bentley’s engine as the demon drove away.

~~~*

Really, Aziraphale thought, he had been above and beyond considerate in giving Crowley a week.

He hadn’t thought that his impromptu confession would be so … _distressing_ for the demon. It wasn’t like Crowley’s affections weren’t an open secret, and he had been fairly certain that the other knew how much he was loved in return. Aziraphale had been so very relieved when it seemed that they were finally, _finally_ going to be able to address this enormous emotional Elephant-In-The-Room, that he hadn’t even considered that Crowley might react with surprise and dismay.

Well, the blasted beast was definitely out now, tromping and trumpeting all over his bookshop. Crowley might have wanted to run away and hide, but he was just going to have to talk about it. And if he wouldn’t come to Aziraphale, the angel was jolly well going to him.

Which is why he stood in the hallway outside Crowley’s flat, eyeing the snakey doorbell with disfavour. “Crowley!” He wasn’t _shouting_ , exactly. He was merely pitching his voice to carry. “Will you open this door? You know you’re going to let me in eventually. Can we reserve our energy to argue about the actual topic at hand?”

No answer.

He slumped forward, resting his head against the doorjamb. “Dear one, _please_. Don’t make me stand out here until the actual end of the world,” he pleaded in a much lower tone. “Because I absolutely will.”

He startled as the door suddenly swung open. “Fine. Come on then. Just don’t expect me to listen to anything you say.”

Crowley looked … terrible. To be precise, he looked the very specific kind of terrible of someone who hadn’t slept for a week but consumed extraordinary amounts of alcohol instead, someone who had ignored their best friend ringing the doorbell for the past twenty minutes, someone who had hastily (and ineffectually) miracled their clothing and coiffure into the sort of stylish casualness intended to pretend that they hadn’t done any of the above.

(It was not a kind of terrible that Aziraphale had ever seen on Crowley before, but it was instantly identifiable.)

The demon stepped aside as Aziraphale entered. He had been in Crowley’s flat many times before, but he was struck anew at how dark, and spare, and … _cold_ it all looked. He had heard the other proclaim so many times that it was his preferred aesthetic, but honestly! Did Crowley simply not notice how often he gravitated towards the softest, warmest, most cluttered corners of the bookshop? Why did he insist on living in a space so hostile to his own preferences?

Was it the same reason that he was so adamantly opposed to hearing of an angel’s love?

“I’m not going to offer you tea, or ask you to make yourself comfortable,” Crowley was saying, “Since I’m pretty bloody sure that you’re here just to make me _un_ comfortable.” He waved at the slippery, unforgiving sofa. “Sit down anyway. I’m going to pour myself a drink.”

The smell of stale liquor in the flat was unmistakable. “As you wish, my dear. It’s your home. I am merely an uninvited, and clearly an unwelcome, visitor.”

The demon slammed his glass against the granite countertop. “Bastard,” he muttered. He pinched his nose beneath his sunglasses. “Fine, then. Care to join me in some whisky, Aziraphale?”

“No, thank you. I prefer to keep a clear head for now,” he responded primly.

Crowley muttered something under his breath in which the words _stick_ , _up_ , and _arse_ could clearly be discerned, and sauntered back into the room. He ignored the furniture, choosing to lean against the slick grey wall across from the sofa, casually sipping his Scotch. “So. I guess we’re really going to do this. What’s so blessed important to _talk about_ , angel?”

“Well.” He laced his fingers together in his lap, to keep him from wringing them. He had _practiced_ this. “I think it best to establish some agreed-upon parameters, first.”

Crowley nodded curtly, and took another sip.

“You love me,” stated the angel. “As a friend. And, um, romantically. You have for … quite some time.”

“Yes.” The tips of the demon’s ears were bright pink, but he seemed not to look away. Aziraphale wished he would take off those dratted sunglasses.

“And I love you. For nearly as long,” Aziraphale continued doggedly.

“No. You don’t.” Crowley seemed to consider for a moment. “Well, s’pose you _might_ ,” he conceded. “I mean, _generically_. Like angels do.”

“Yes, like an angel.” Aziraphale winced. “But also _specifically_. Like a friend. _And_ , well, in a more-than-platonic fashion.” He could feel a flush creeping up from beneath his collar. Really, this shouldn’t be so blasted _difficult_.

Crowley tilted his head back and stared at the ceiling. “Sheer poetry,” he observed. “I’ve heard more romance at contract negotiations.” He lowered his chin again. “From you, I’ve spent six thousand years hearing the opposite.”

Aziraphale crumpled. “I am so, so very sorry about that. I … I was trying to keep us, _both_ of us, safe, I didn’t know _how_ … I thought, I _thought_ , that if I just, I don’t know, exaggerated, went over the top, you would be able to tell, that I didn’t mean it, I didn’t mean _any_ of it, I didn’t realize, well I should have, I knew better, but I _didn’t_ , that you couldn’t sense what I really felt, all that _time_ , I can’t begin to tell you how deeply I regret …” his voice trailed off as he buried his head in his hands. He couldn’t even look at Crowley.

“ _Fuck_!” There was a crash and a sharp scent of Scotch whisky as the demon hurled his glass at a concrete wall. “I _know_ that, Aziraphale. I knew it all along. I’m not an _idiot_.” The angel heard him draw a ragged breath. “I’m … I’m sorry, all right? Don’t …” A soft _thud_ alarmed Aziraphale enough to look through his fingers, just in time to see Crowley bang his head against the wall a second time.

“No, my dearest boy. Don’t _you_. Don’t apologize.” He pulled his hands away and lifted his chin. “I am the one who owes you thousands of years’ worth of apologies. It doesn’t matter what you knew or didn’t know. I _hurt_ you.” He felt tears prickle in his eyes. “I hurt you, knowingly, willingly, over and over again. I should have been more clever, thought of another way. I should have been _braver_. I should…”

“What you _should_ do is give up this idea that you love me,” Crowley snapped. “’M a _demon_. I will always, _always_ take the cheap shot. Even if I know better.” He slumped down to the floor, elbows propped on knees, head hung low between his shoulders. “Even if it makes you _cry_.”

“Dearest …”

“ _Stop_. Just … just stop.”

Aziraphale wanted, wanted very very badly, to cross over to where the demon sagged glumly against the wall, to put his arm around him, to pet his lovely soft hair. He was fairly sure that wouldn’t go over at all well right now. He hummed quietly. “I can’t, you know. Just _stop_. I mean, I wouldn’t if I _could_ , but I can’t. Love doesn’t work like that.”

Crowley glanced up at that, puzzled. “What d’you mean? Of course it does.” He crossed his arms across his chest. “Love is a _choice_.”

“Oh, my dear, it certainly is not. It’s not like you slithered up to the Garden one day, said to yourself, _hmm, look at that foolish soft Principality, think I’ll give loving him a go for a while, just for a lark_ , now, did you?”

“Pretty much, yeah.”

Aziraphale caught his breath. “Crowley…”

The demon looked away defensively.

“Dear one, I think that is the _bravest_ thing I have ever heard of in my very long life.” He could not stop staring.

“S’not a big deal, eh? Like you said. Just a lark, that. Wasn’t supposed to, so I _did_.” Crowley snorted, trying to cover up his discomfort. “Demons, all about rebellion, right?”

“I would never have _dared_ ,” marveled the angel. “I didn’t even _think_ about it. I don’t even know when I … well, I do recall when I realized. I was in Mohenjo-Daro, you remember the place, yes? In the Indus valley? The sun was beating down quite fiercely, and I was at a market-stall, they had some of the most delicious salt jack, and I looked up and there you were—you were presenting as a woman at the time, all black scarves and jangling bracelets, very much drew the eye, my dear—and I thought to myself, _ah, there’s Crawly_ , you hadn’t changed your name yet, you see, or at least you hadn’t told me, _how delightful it is that she loves me, how happy it makes me to love her back, such a pity that we’ll never be able to speak of it, not really_ , and …” he sighed reminiscently, and clasped his hands, “then last week I suddenly thought that we _could_.” He twisted his fingers. “But you don’t want to.”

“S’not that I …” Crowley groaned. “Well, not _entirely_. S’that … you say that you _do_ , and even if I believed that, which I don’t, because you have terrible judgment but not _that_ bad, not so’s to love a demon, hanging out, enjoying a meal and a drink, that’s one thing, but _love_ , that’s a whole nother level of _stupid_ —”

“It is _not_!” Aziraphale cried out passionately. “And it is _painful_ to hear you keep denigrating yourself that way! I have known you for thousands of years, and I assure you that you are _perfectly_ worthy of love!”

“S’not a question of _worth_ ,” Crowley argued. “You may have known me for a long time, angel, but I’m the world’s greatest expert on Being Me. And I assure you that I am not a thing that anyone _loves_. Got the official Divine Certification of my inability to be loved and everything, with a shove to the back and a faceful of boiling sulphur, eons ago.”

“Crowley…” Aziraphale sucked in his breath. “Is that what this is all about? Being Fallen? Because…” He leaned forward intently. “We both know the propaganda. _To Fall means to be cut off from love_. Well, we both also know that’s false. If you can love, you can _be_ loved. It’s only logical.”

“May be logical, Aziraphale, but it isn’t true. I mean, I was _there_ ,” the demon said bitterly. “I _felt_ it. Her Love … just torn away. _Gone_. Like it never was.”

The angel shook his head stubbornly. “I don’t believe that.”

“You also believe that oysters are edible, tartan is stylish, and that the Velvet Underground played _bebop_. Permit me to trust my own experience over your _beliefs_.”

“You do know that I never really believed any of those things, don’t you? Well, oysters _are_ scrummy, but … honestly, dear boy, you are such a treat to wind up, how can I resist?” Aziraphale shrugged a little guiltily. “This is different. I _know_ that the Almighty never stopped loving you. _Any_ of you. Even … even the Adversary. It’s simply not possible.”

“You _know_.” Crowley leaned his head back and laughed. “Of course you do. Do share this revelation, O Guardian of the East.”

“You mock, but it’s quite simple, really.” The angel sniffed. “You exist.”

“Wot.”

“You exist,” he repeated. “Since everything that is, is by the grace of Her sustaining Love, obviously the Almighty retains sufficient … _care_ for you to maintain your Being. Unless you think that She is preserving you out of sheer malicious pleasure in witnessing your suffering.”

The demon’s expression suggested that he thought exactly that. Nonetheless, he merely smirked. “Or perhaps she’s popped out of this cosmos entirely for one with less mess. Less bother. Prettier stars and different channels on the telly. Left the whole thing running on auto-pilot, as it were.” The grin slid off his face, and he shook his head tiredly. “Point is, whatever you _believe_ , you could stop loving anytime you choose.”

“Can _you_? _Would_ you?” he asked. Unspoken was the implicit question: _will you?_

“Sure. Probably. Dunno.” Crowley took off his sunglasses and rubbed his eyes. “Don’ wanna.”

“Thank you, I suppose.” Aziraphale eyed him curiously. “Why ever not?”

Crowley shrugged. “S’ _nice_. Feels good. Fills up … the empty places. Where She used to be.” His eyes—golden, unguarded, vulnerable—darted up to meet the angel’s. “’Sides … well. You know.” He looked away again. “’S _you_.”

Aziraphale thought that he did indeed know. “Yes. I understand. _Someone_ has to, eh?” He smiled painfully.

“ _Oi_!” Crowley shot to his feet. “None of that! I won’t hear anything like that from you!”

“And yet,” the angel observed drily, “you expect me to agree with worse sentiments that you express about yourself.” He regarded the sputtering demon, and sighed. “Oh, my dear. This isn’t getting us anywhere.” He patted the sofa next to him. “Come and sit by me. You don’t have to _do_ anything, just because I love you. I won’t say anything more about it, ever. Not when it distresses you so much. I suppose that you don’t even have to believe it, although I wish that you would. More for your sake than mine.” He looked up imploringly. “I … I just miss my friend.”

Aziraphale knew very well that Crowley couldn’t ever refuse that particular pleading expression. Slowly, almost grudgingly, the demon moved over to the sofa. Rather than his customary sprawl, he coiled himself into the very farthest corner, long thin arms hugging his knees against his chin. At least he didn’t put his sunglasses back on.

The angel sat primly on the other side, back straight, hands clasped loosely in his lap. Both looked straight ahead.

Neither said anything for quite some time.

Aziraphale watched dust motes suspended in the golden shafts of light from the late afternoon sun. He contemplated the switched-off television screen, reflecting clouds scudding across a slowly darkening sky. He listened to the steady (if entirely unnecessary) breathing of the entity seated towards his left. He tried with all his might to project warmth, safety, and steady affection, although even after all this time he really didn’t know how much of that a demon (no, not _any_ demon, just _his_ demon, his unique, maddening, infuriating, infinitely _precious_ demon) could sense.

Eventually he was rewarded by a gruff voice beside him, speaking so quietly he almost didn’t hear. “‘M not _strong_ enough.”

“Strong enough for what, dear boy?” Aziraphale kept looking straight ahead.

“To go through that again. Couldn’t take it. If—” Crowley cleared his throat. “— _when_ you stop.”

“Ah.” The angel silently shuffled through the many things he desperately wanted to say in response. On top of the list was _I will never stop loving you, you ridiculous creature._ Next was _I am not Her, you can trust me_. Also very high up was _You are stronger than you think_. Rapidly rising through the ranks was _Stop talking and just kiss me_.

None of these, he thought, would be helpful in this context. (Although he suspected he could at least get some buy-in on the last.)

Finally, Aziraphale could only say what he knew to be the truth. “Darling. The only way to learn to trust again … is to trust again. Every day. There is no shortcut. No end point, either, I’m afraid. Nowhere you can say, _I’m finished, I’m done; from this moment on I will always trust you_. I’m so, so sorry. If I could give you an unbreakable guarantee of _forever_ , I would.” He risked a quick glance over. “But I can give you--I can _choose_ to give you-- _this_ day. _This_ minute. Please. Just take my _now_. All of my _now_ s.”

Crowley grunted. But it wasn’t a dismissal, exactly; more of a gentle, thoughtful _gngkt._

After a few eternal moments, the demon shuffled over on the sofa, near enough that Aziraphale could feel the warmth of the Hellfire simmering deep within. “The _now_ of an angel, eh? I’d say that’s definitely a Thing.”

Aziraphale didn’t say a word. He only raised his left arm and placed it along the back of the sofa, like a sheltering wing.

Crowley inched the tiniest bit closer. He tilted his head, resting it against the angel’s shoulder. He permitted his eyelids to flutter shut. “All right?” he said tentatively.

“Quite.”

And it was.


End file.
